The Tutor
by CSI Clue
Summary: When Eames takes a cruise, he becomes embroiled in matters beyond his control.
1. Chapter 1

She was at the rail, and in Julian Eames' salacious estimation, precisely what he was looking for.

Before he'd realized what he was looking for, that is.

Blonde, trim, and scrumptiously well-endowed, tucked into a lovely flowered sundress-_with _white gloves no less-and most importantly, unaccompanied by anyone at all. In the late afternoon sunshine of the Mediterranean, she was a glorious gift from heaven, and Eames was properly grateful for it. He unfolded himself from the deck chair and rose, looking as nonchalant as possible, and after a few strides, deliberately bumped against her.

Somehow he'd misjudged; instead of knocking her back a bit and with any luck spilling her purse across the cruise ship deck, things took a different twist, and Eames found himself face-down on the wood, the wind slightly knocked out of him. He turned his face to see the sexy ankle strap wedges of her shoes.

"Oh dear!" he heard, and rolled to look up, trying to smile.

At this angle, the full beauty of her chest made regaining his breath that much more difficult; the strain of those glorious breasts against the thin muslin of her dress was a marvel of tailored engineering.

"M-my fault," he whispered manfully. "So sorry!"

"Let me help you," the woman cooed, and slipped a hand to the back of his neck. "Are you sure you're all right?" she asked, and began to pull him to his feet.

For a second he wasn't sure; his head hurt a bit. Then a purser approached and began to bluster; Eames was sure his concern was for potential lawsuits over any injury, but Eames waved him away with a sheepish smile.

"I'm fine, fine- just clumsy-footed. Nothing damaged but my dignity, I assure you," he repeated for the purser, who gradually nodded and went back to ship's business.

Eames turned to the woman, prepared to spread the charm on thickly. "Thank you—"

He stopped; she had a sweater draped over one arm, and under the fold of it, the small blue-steel business end of a gun peeped out.

The woman smiled up at him, her green eyes bright with amusement. "You're welcome, but I feel _so _terrible about your fall that I insist we go back to my cabin—right now."

"Ah. Yes, well you make a compelling argument, Miss-?" Eames sighed, wondering exactly where his afternoon had gone wrong.

"Sally. Sally Malone. Deck three, suite three," she murmured, and tipped her head slightly, indicating he should lead the way. Eames was used to leading, albeit not precisely in this fashion. Resigned, he headed into the ship to the elevators, wondering how Ms. Malone had managed to smuggle a gun onto the ship, and what the _hell _she was going to do once they got to her cabin.

His libidinous imagination kicked in at that point, and for the next ten minutes Eames distracted himself with various erotic scenarios, each more improbable than the last as the two of them strolled down the corridors towards the first class suites. These were forward, under the bridge of the cruise ship, and although the cabin he had was fairly pricey, Eames whistled at the luxuriousness of the facilities once they stepped inside. "Oh my, how very . . . decadent, darling."

"I like space," came the calm admission. "You can relax now, Mr. Eames—I've put the gun away."

He turned, more in response to his name than the assurance about the weapon. Sally Malone was tugging her gloves off. She stepped down into the living room pit and gracefully flounced onto one of the sofas, looking up at him.

Eames looked back at her. "Here's where you tell me how you know who I am," he prompted, a small smirk on his face.

"There are _lots_ of people who know who you are," she countered dryly, "And lots of people who'd like to know _where _you are."

"Yes, well I _do_ have a reputation," Eames countered, thinking hard and fast. He had enemies; that was intrinsic to the business, but nobody actively after him of late—at least, nobody of importance.

"You have _several _reputations," Sally replied with a roll of her eyes. "And one of them is for neglecting your promises. I'm here to make you pay up on one of them, Mr. Eames."

"Oh call me Julian, darling," he countered, stepping down and taking a seat on the sofa across the coffee table from her. "And which promise would _that _be, precisely?"

"The one to Ambrose Heath about training a new therapist," Sally reminded him. "He was understandably annoyed about you running off before your contract was through."

"I didn't have _time _to guide some novice through the drills," Eames snapped, exasperated. "Not with all the bloody new cases he kept piling onto my workload!" His head throbbed for a moment, and he shot her an impatient glare, fighting back certain bleak memories of that time in his life. "_And _the salary was ridiculous; a pittance for a person of my skills. I'm much better off as a free agent."

"Oh yes, I can tell," Sally cooed. "Because slumming in Mombasa is _such_ a step up. Because constantly sidestepping Cobol is a thrill. Gooooood times."

"You're too damned pretty to be so sarcastic; it doesn't become you," Eames chided, although he grinned crookedly. "Yes, well there are issues to be worked out for every avenue of employment, and speaking of which, I don't recall SomnoTech being nice enough to put a cruise on the travel vouchers—at least, not back during _my _tenure." He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his thighs and studied her.

It was a pleasure. Long tanned legs now neatly folded under her, lean hips, tiny nip of a waist, really, that magnificent chest, and higher than that—he looked there as well—a heart-shaped face with green eyes.

"You're damned blatant, you know," Sally murmured, her voice calm but a tint of pink coming to her cheeks.

"I've been invited here into your cabin; I believe that gives me a certain impression. A certain leeway," Eames pointed out. "And you haven't answered my question."

"Somno Tech is being bought up," she replied. "Apparently Robert Fischer has this idea that dream therapy might be a beneficial investment-"

Eames laughed; he couldn't help it, and leaned back against the sofa, stretching out his long arms along the back. "He does? Oh that's lovely, that is!"

"—and Ambrose feels you had something to do with that," Sally continued. "He wants you to finish up your obligation by tutoring me in the finer arts of personal replication."

Eames pursed his mouth for a moment, and his thoughts moved at the speed of light as he considered all the pros and cons of the situation. There were two big lovely pros of course, but pragmatically, the cons outnumbered them. He sighed. "I'm afraid I'm not available for the request, Miss Malone, tempted as I am—and believe me I _am_ tempted. Ambrose may be opting for the carrot, but as far as I'm concerned, Somno Tech can take a flying fuck at the moon."

Oddly, the woman didn't look at all perturbed, either by his rejection or his language. Instead, she shifted slightly and checked the tiny watch on her wrist. "All right."

Suspicion kicked in, hard. "All right?" Eames echoed, not sure if he'd heard her correctly. "I've just declined your demand and that's it? No more threats with bullets?"

"I've got a feeling you're going to change your mind," Sally told him blandly. "I'll be here when you do. And between us, I wouldn't mention the gun." She tossed him the plastic toy with a shy smile. "Gift shop—painted it myself, took the squirt device out."

He caught it, one-handed, and examined the thing before setting it on the coffee table.

"You wicked little minx," he growled, grinning despite his unease. Eames wasn't above giving an approving nod to a con well-played, and dipped his head to her as he rose and passed on his way to the door. "I consider it to be a genuine pity about the turn of events. Give my best to Ambrose, will you, darling?"

"Certainly," she replied, following behind him to the cabin door. "Oh, and Julian?"

He turned, smile ready.

"Here's hoping your headache doesn't get too bad."

She closed the door, and he stood there a moment longer, slightly puzzled, but more relieved than anything else. With a shrug and a jaunty whistle, Eames sauntered down the corridor, his thoughts turning to the baccarat table and a good scotch malt.


	2. Chapter 2

Three hours later, the agony had him staggering. Eames shuffled his way along the wall of his cabin and fumbled for the light, trying hard not to vomit, and feeling a rare panic. The pain was bad enough, but under it was the terror that kept coming back to her last words because Eames didn't think Sally Malone was a psychic.

He fumbled for the folding door to the bathroom and reeled in, blinking against the harsh light, and trying to focus on his reflection. Haggard was too kind a word; Eames looked every inch as bad as he felt, which was saying a lot. "Damn," he grunted, and leaned heavily on the sink waiting for the throbbing at his temples to die down.

It had started at the gaming tables, and although he'd switched from scotch to water, the pain had gotten stronger. A stop at the little coin vending machine pharmacy in the men's room for ibuprofen hadn't halted the growing pain, but Eames wasn't ready to head to the clinic just yet.

He thought hard—or as hard as the pain let him—reliving every step of his day in an attempt to figure out what had happened. When he reached the memories of Sally, Eames blinked, and rapidly pressed a hand to the back of his neck. A tiny sore place under his fingers made him wince, but trying to see it in the mirror was impossible. He fished out a shaving mirror from his kit and used it with the bathroom mirror to get a better look.

Tiny, but there _was_ a red cut. Too long to be an injection, and too small to probe easily. Eames swore, loudly and viciously.

When he'd finished cursing Ambrose, Somno Tech, Sally Malone and the rest of the world in general, he stuck his head under the sink and ran the cold water in an attempt to cool his brain.

It didn't help, and Eames dried his hair roughly with a towel, threw it to the floor in a fit of pique, and left his cabin, making his way forward to deck three, suite three, prepared to vent his righteous wrath on the resident there . . . or at least demand an explanation if not an outright cure from her. He rapped hard on the door, letting the pain in his knuckles distract him from the throb in his head.

"It's open," came the muffled invitation. Eames debated storming in, and thought better of it, moving cautiously inside the little foyer.

"What the _hell _did you do to me?" he demanded huskily, and stopped.

Sally Malone was stretched out on one of the sofas, wearing a low-riding pair of black sweat pants and a cut-off pink tee-shirt that exposed her muscled stomach and a fine gold chain around her waist. Eames stared, caught up in a quick surge of testosterone at the sight before remembering his situation. He reluctantly shifted his glance to her face.

"I did offer the carrot first," she murmured, closing her book and sitting up. "You should remember that."

"Yes, well you can take your bloody carrot and shove it . . ." Eames broke off and closed his eyes, trying to regain control. He pinched the bridge of his nose and spoke in a low, rapid voice. "Look, I'm sorry, I didn't mean that. But I'm in agony here, and if you're responsible, I'd like relief. Now."

"Dream with me," Sally murmured, and pulled a Synchronizer out from the bottom shelf of the coffee table. Eames stared at it a moment, frowning.

"What?"

"There's a medication in the sedative that will give you relief for about seven hours or so," Sally told him forthrightly. "Five minutes of dreaming in exchange for being able to sleep through the night. Dream with me every day for the rest of this cruise and at the end I'll have the migraine chip removed from you."

Eames swore with increased venom, the foul words rolling out with clipped maliciousness until the air in the suite held a faint blue tinge. Sally barely blinked, and by the twitch in her cheek seemed to be biting back a smirk. She waited until he wound down, then handed him a bottle of water. For a moment he looked as if he would throw it back at her, but with a grunt of sullen resignation, Eames viciously twisted the cap off and chugged it.

She spoke calmly. "The sed vials are locked in the safe, and the extractor is in the ship's vault. I didn't want to do it this way, but you made the choice."

"Oh don't throw this back on_ me _thank you very much!" he growled. "This is blackmail. It's _worse_ than blackmail, it's slavery!"

"I need what you can teach me, Julian," Sally sighed. "Ambrose pressures me, and in turn I pressure you—the world is a cruel place. On the other hand, you can be feeling better in sixty seconds. We go under, you start training me—things get better."

Eames sat heavily on the sofa next to her, eyes closed. "You're a bitch, you know that?"

"Yes, I do," Sally assured him. "But I come by it honestly. Ready to feel better?"

In response, Eames grudgingly held out his arm. Sally flicked open the catches on the case, and as he watched her, he noted the curve of her ass.

It was instinctive, and Eames understood that his libido had no qualms about responding to stimulus, no matter what else might be going on with his body. Carefully he stretched out on the sofa, grateful for the water. The tiniest scrape of the microfine needles at his wrist, and-

It was depressingly familiar: the main laboratory of Somno Tech, chrome and tiles and carefully neutral colored carpet. All of it, right down to the two-way mirror overlooking the main sleep bay. Eames gave a theatrical sigh and shifted to look at Sally, who gave a shrug.

"Wanted to give us a setting we both knew, for starters. I only dabble in dream design, Julian; my forte is symbolism and Jungian therapy. How's your head?"

"Better," he admitted grudgingly, and then looked down at himself. The lab coat was a good fit, and he realized that Sally's assessment had been thorough. "All right, this is _your_ Dream, so let's start with what we both know. And for the record, once this week is over, I look forward to never seeing you again, got it?"

"Got it," she replied calmly. They began walking down the hall together, and Eames gave a shiver as memories returned. He took a left at the first junction, heading for the main floor stairs, his pace quickening. Sally followed him, a few steps behind.

He woke with a shudder, sucking in a deep breath as he returned to consciousness. Out of quick habit, Eames dropped a hand to his pocket and fished out the antique ivory Mah Jong tile, lightly hefting it in his fingers. He re-pocketed it as over on the other sofa, Sally gave a sigh and opened her eyes. "Ugh. Okay—" she muttered and rubbed her wrist. "Sorry, this particular Sed blend gives me a touch of vertigo."

Eames touched the back of his neck. "Forgive me if I lack a bit of sympathy, darling. All right, you've been well-drilled in the basics, and yes, you've got a Somno Tech maze depressingly well laid-out, more's the pity. I hope you brought files on some people to try and duplicate though."

"I did," Sally replied, and sat up, reaching for her bare feet, stroking them. Eames liked the view of that quite a bit, particularly where the low cut of the sweat pants revealed the dimples at the base of her spine.

"God I'm famished," he announced to the room in general. Sally stretched a moment more, then reached over for the suite phone on the side table.

"I'll order if you pack up the machine. What do you want?"

Eames bit back a suggestive remark and rubbed his chin. "Whatever catch of the day is fresh, and some rice. Salad too, if they've got it, and some cheesecake."

"I can see you're not going to be a cheap date," Sally grumbled.

"I'm worth it every penny, believe me," he bantered back, grateful that the headache had abated. Rolling to his feet, Eames squatted and packed up the machine after checking that the lines were coiled and sanitized. He snapped the case shut just as Sally finished the order, and looked over at her on the sofa.

"So. What's the Sally Malone story? If we're going to be playing teacher and student for the next week, I'd like to know just who the hell you are and what Ambrose has over you to drive you to this sort of subterfuge."

She flinched, just the tiniest bit. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"I think," Eames rose, looming over her with a serious expression, "that you do. Ambrose Heath has all the creative drive of a sea slug, darling. He would have _never_ thought of tracking me down—at least, not on his own. But if someone suggested it to him, I could see him agreeing to it. And anyone tracking me down would be fairly desperate for the training. Tell me; what's that old windbag threatened you with to drive you to this?"

She eyed him for a long moment, and then shook her head. "No," Sally told him softly. "It's not germane to the situation, Julian. I'll be glad to give you any other details you may need about me, but not that."

He blinked, immediately intrigued. "A woman with secrets. Well I hate to tell you this, but I'm very, very good at finding out what I want to know, Sally. I have . . ." he leaned over her further, his smirk very self-assured, "a very big . . . carrot."

Unexpectedly, she giggled. It was a sweet sound, one of seductive agreement, and Eames grinned himself at it, willing to give up his questions for the chance to do other things with the woman on the sofa.

"Yes, I'm certain that you do," she replied, smiling up at him. "But room service is going to be here in a few minutes, I wouldn't want to interrupt anything fun before then."

"Ah," Eames nodded thoughtfully. "Food. Yes, fortifying ourselves first is very wise, I think."

Sally refrained from rolling her eyes, but the dimple in her cheek deepened. "You're absolutely sold on your own sex appeal, aren't you?"

Eames pursed his lips slightly. "Which one of us has all that lovely skin exposed? Which one of us is supine? Which one of us invited the other to this cabin?"

"Who's shifting the blame now?" Sally laughed throatily. "It's not my fault if your hormones respond to a little . . . stimulus."

"I wouldn't call it a little," Eames told her, and dropped a swift light kiss on her mouth before straightening up and running a hand through his hair. "And I _was _serious-what's a lovely girl like you doing working for a flatulent koala like Ambrose? Details, darling, details—might as well get in some practice with those, eh?"

He watched her sit up, amused and pleased to see that Sally's cool demeanor was slightly rattled. She shifted a little on the sofa and sighed.

"Sarah Catherine Malone. Born in Chicago, grew up mostly along the East coast of the US. I've got one sister, older—Jill—she's married now, so I am an aunt three times over. Let's see—I was the difficult child, but I managed to graduate and earn my degrees on my own. Was engaged, but we broke it off mutually, and—"

"—mutually?" Eames interrupted, looking at her curiously. "As in mutual mutual, or as in the 'one of us found out something about the other' mutual?"

Sally paused for a second, and shrugged. "I wasn't ready."

"Ah." Eames wondered what she wasn't ready for, but didn't push. "Very well, proceed."

"Thank you. I like—let's see, ummm, good steak, movies with lots of explosions, live theater and collecting books about Spain."

For a moment neither of them spoke and in that pause, a little knock on the door announced room service.

Eames let the waiter in, holding the door for the trolley and tipped him generously as Sally pulled silver covers off of the plates. The scent of broiled steak rose up and she sniffed it appreciatively.

"Dinner's on."


	3. Chapter 3

Eames hasn't realized how hungry he'd been. He looked guiltily at his empty plate and dabbed his lips with the napkin, feeling very nearly content. His headache was gone for the moment, his stomach was full, and across from him, a woman wearing very little was cutting her filet mignon. Each sawing motion made her chest bounce, and the effect was sensually mesmerizing.

"You really do like breasts," Sally murmured, spearing a bite and chewing it thoughtfully.

Eames gave a non-apologetic shrug. "Oh yes. As fetishes go, it's definitely one of my top three, and let's face it Sally my pet, you really DO have a balcony to die for."

"I was thinking of having them reduced, actually," she told him conversationally. "They can be hideously distracting at times."

"Bite your tongue, darling—they're a work of art and a joy to the heart of every mammary lover out there," Eames countered swiftly. "Breasts like yours should be worshipped. I'm fully prepared to do so, in fact."

"We'll probably get to that in due course," Sally murmured. "Apropos of a few ground rules."

"So practical," Eames rose and looked for the cheesecake on the cart. "I'm listening."

"The sex has nothing to do with the tutoring," Sally told him forthrightly. "Whatever we do off the machine is separate from time on it. Agreed?"

"Oh I think I can handle that," Eames told her, delicately scooping some cheesecake onto a small china plate. "No mixing business and pleasure."

"Right. And my only other request is that unless mutually agreed beforehand, we're not actually going to be roommates for the nights."

"What, you don't want my manly bulk keeping you warm and cozy throughout the hours of darkness?" Eames glanced over at her, pretending to be hurt.

"This is a Mediterranean cruise, Mr. Eames, not an Alaskan one," Sally countered. "Besides, you've paid for your cabin, you might as well appreciate it."

"But I'm enjoying this one so much more," he teased, waving the cheesecake at her. "The upgraded amenities are a very large draw."

She was about to protest when he dropped on the sofa next to her and laughed softly. "Darling, relax—your stipulations make perfect sense, and I agree. I have one proviso of my own of course."

"What's that?"

"We use latex," Eames told her firmly. "I don't care if you're on the Pill, wear a cervical cap AND had your tubes tied, we use condoms each and _every_ time."

He waited for her response, bracing himself, but Sally gave a thoughtful nod and reached for the fork on the plate he held. "All right. Is that the only one?"

"The only one?" Eames echoed, slightly surprised. "Were you expecting others?"

"Yes," Sally nodded. "I was sure you'd lay down the law about how we're not going to be exclusive, and if you want to sleep with other people you will—that sort of thing."

He blinked. The thought actually hadn't occurred to him, and belatedly he realized it should have. "Er, right. Is that what you want?" Eames asked her, fighting down an odd pang of regret.

Sally smiled at him, and although her lips turned up, there was a hint of evasiveness in her big green eyes. "Julian, I have no personal claim on you whatsoever. I need your expertise in the art of interpersonal imitation; that's primary for me. The rest is what I *choose* to do, and if I can have you to myself, I will. But I won't insist. I don't have the right to that."

He stared at her for a moment, and the longer he did, the more charged the air around them grew. Eames slowly set the plate of cheesecake down on the coffee table.

"I don't think we need *this* right now," he rumbled, and reached for her.

The fork Sally held went dropping onto the carpet as she slithered into Eames' arms, and he kissed her hotly, feeling a sharp hungry rise of lust at the taste of her. It had been a while since he'd last made love, and his body was thrumming with desire.

Still, he held back, taking his time as he pulled Sally into his lap. She straddled his hips, pressing up against Eames as she kissed him warmly in return. He sensed the same restrained passion in her; a mirror of his own deliberate pacing over an underlying hunger, and that realization made him smile inwardly. Whatever else Sally Malone was, Eames thought, hot-blooded was definitely in the mix.

They kept kissing, getting to know each other in a slow, sweet intimate way of new lovers. Eames stopped trying to analyze things and simply let instinct guide him; a good process with women in general, he knew. Whenever Sally sighed or moaned he made a note of what had brought the response and filed it away, although it was difficult at times when so many of _her_ actions left him slightly brainless as well.

She had a trick in particular of breathing into his ear that sent chills along his spine and when she licked there as well, Eames had trouble breathing.

"Bloody _hell,_ darling, don't push me over the edge just yet!" he warned her softly, and she giggled softly.

"Sorry," Sally told him, clearly not meaning a word of it. "I want you. A lot."

"Perhaps we should cut to the chase then?" Eames replied hoarsely, nibbling along the side of her neck, "Take the edge off and go back for the niceties?"

"Good plan," Sally moaned, and wriggled, tugging his shirt open.

Matters after that were much more physical, and Eames was damned glad he'd restocked the condoms in his wallet before leaving his cabin. He found himself sidetracked—seriously sidetracked—when Sally peeled off her own shirt, revealing the bra-less glory that has been hiding under the cut-off shirt.

"Christ," he murmured, sweating slightly. Eames slid his big hands up, cupping the hot weight of her breasts, luxuriating in the satiny rounded feel of them. "Oh puberty was very, very good to you, Sally Malone!"

She laughed, her own hands coming up to rest on his. "Generous maybe," Sally whimpered. "Please-"

The sofa wasn't particularly wide or accommodating, but Eames had no intention of stopping matters to get to the bed in the other room; he twisted and pinned Sally under him, both of them tugging at clothes and breaking off to kiss and nibble the entire time. So much demanded his attention: her darling breasts, her wicked mouth; with every article of clothing removed, Eames congratulated himself on maintaining control, although that was crumbling fast.

"Where is it?" Sally mumbled, helping him fish for the condom.

"P-patience," he chided, his eyelids fluttering as she ran her hands along his length. "A lit-tle horny are we?"

"Yes," Sally replied, half sitting up and tossing her hair out of her eyes, "God, yes! This isn't a dick, it's a third _limb,_ Julian!"

He laughed, and carefully unrolled the condom down, her busy fingers helping. "You certainly know how to boost a man's ego, pet!"

"I'm not sure I've got _room_ for that thing," Sally informed him as she settled back on the sofa, her lips twisting in a rueful grin. "But I'll try!"

"Shhhhh," he murmured, arching over her and bracing one arm outside her shoulder, "Leave everything to me-"

Eames thrust gently, and the plush glide into Sally drove a groan from him that came from the fire between his hips. Sally's long thighs tightened around him, and her hands scrabbled along his back."M-m-more-!" she groaned, trying to pull him closer and Eames thrust deeply, his body surging into a wet, delicious rhythm with hers.

Every nerve pulsed, and for long intense minutes, Eames rode her hips hard, kissing Sally with every forward push, muffling their words and catching the smack of her stomach under his. She squealed and whimpered, her nails lightly raking his spine. Eames shifted, bringing her ass higher, and both of them felt the change immediately. Sally gasped, thighs tightening in spasmodic squeezes around his hips that matched the clenching of her cleft around his cock. Eames panted, feeling the hot and undeniable rush of orgasm driving furiously through his groin, sullen and sweet.

The pleasure boiled through him as he came with a roaring groan, pinning Sally's hips against the sofa cushions.

It took a over five minutes for Eames to retain any sense of time and place; good orgasms were like that, and this one had been spectacularly intense. Guiltily he shifted his bulk against the backing of the sofa and peered down at Sally's face. "Mmmmmmm, are you all right, then?"

Her eyes were closed, but her broad smile was bracketed with dimples, and the little curls around her face were damp.

"Just for that? You may have_ all_ the cheesecake," she purred, and Eames chuckled deeply, bending to kiss her slightly swollen mouth.

"I believe I just did, Darling," he informed her, and carefully reached down to hold the condom in place as he shifted from her body.

00oo00oo00

He awoke and looked up, making a lightning assessment of his situation; a habit he'd cultivated in the last few years, and one that has saved his hide more than once. Cabin—Sally's cabin, king-sized bed, so much for not being roommates for the night. He smiled, and rolled over, preparing to kiss her awake, to find she wasn't there.

Disgruntled, Eames sighed and got out of bed, wandering unself-consciously naked through the small cabin, looking for Sally. He spotted her a moment later, out on the small balcony, and stood for a moment, watching her, his interest piqued.

She was in a black leotard, doing yoga apparently, folding herself into a graceful form that required her to balance on one leg. Eames was no practitioner of the art himself, but he understood the discipline and admired Sally's flexibility.

God did he _ever_ admire that aspect of her, and he began to tingle, remembering the previous hours they'd shared earlier, entangled in the darkness, unable to go slowly in the hungry rush for each other. There was one condom still left, and Eames was determined to use it before showering, if possible. He stepped closer to the window, waiting for her to notice him.

Sally turned her head slightly and wobbled a bit; Eames gave her a wave, and that made her laugh. She carefully slid out of the pose and strode over to the sliding glass door, still snickering. "Aren't _you_ the cute puppy in the window?"

"And I'm so happy to see you," he mouthed back shamelessly through the glass. Sally laughed again, but instead of sliding the door open, she reached for the neckline of her leotard and peeled it down, smirking at Eames. Her breasts came into view, looking particularly marvelous in the thin morning light, and he felt himself throb happily in response.

A half-dressed sultry blonde; that was definitely what Eames had in mind for breakfast as he slid the door open and reached for her. Sally giggled, letting herself be tugged back into the cabin, wrapping herself around him like a bouncy octopus and letting Eames half-carry, half-waltz her through the room. They kissed, and tumbled onto the mattress of the bed, Eames pinning her under him with lazy ease.

"You're a very naughty girl, flashing me like that," he lectured her lightly, hands moving across her chest, his thumbs lightly flicking over her hard nipples.

Sally snorted. "What about _you _standing there with nothing but a smile and a huge-"

"Ah, but I was inside," Eames dimpled. "That's a matter of personal freedom and privacy, whereas your ample charms were on display to the public."

"The balcony . . ." Sally tried to argue, "Faces the front . . . oooh . . . of the ship. Nobody could . . . see . . . Mmmmmmeebut . . . you . . ."

"Nevertheless, you are still a naughty girl, and should be . . . taken in hand," Eames decided, dropping his head to graze his lips over the nearest of her nipples.

"Who made _you_ the boss?" Sally pretended to grumble, even as her hands slid between their bodies and caressed his shaft, fingers nimble and clever.

"I'm the one . . . tutoring you," he reasoned, his voice hazy now because her touch felt SO good, and thinking was not really a priority, not with her fingers stroking that way. Eames felt like purring as he rolled over, pulling Sally across him in the process.

"How's your head?" she demanded gently.

"Which one?"

"Funny man," Sally chided. "You know what I mean."

He took stock for a moment and blinked. "Start of a headache in the back. I think sex and food would help."

"And Dreaming," Sally murmured, shifting further down along his body. "Tell you what. I'll give you something to tide you over, we'll dream, and then you'll feel much better."

"Tide me . . ." he began, glancing down the length of his body. Sally nuzzled his erection, and suddenly her meaning was perfectly clear. "Ahhh. A diversionary tactic, I see."

"We're on a boat. Want to see me blow the man down?" she laughed, and delicately slipped her mouth over the thick head of his cock. Eames grunted, a rush of pleasure making him swell in immediate response.

"Ohhh now I see you're a _very _naughty girl," he managed thickly, propping his shoulders up to watch Sally as she lightly licked around the leaking tip and smiled at him.

"Incorrigible," she assured Eames, and slowly opened her mouth wider.

It was unbearably erotic, he thought, to see her pale fingers raking through the thick dark bush around his cock, her mouth moving sensually around it. When her blonde hair fell forward, obscuring the view, he reached over and brushed it out of the way, then left his fingers in it, caressing the soft strands as she gave a hum of pleasure.

Eames felt that, oh yes, and groaned back, his hips starting to rock. "Oh niiiiiiice," he started to say, and then felt the head of his cock breech the ring of muscle in the back of her throat. He gasped, watching her press her nose against his fur. "Holy Christ!"

Sally slowly increased her pace, taking him deep every third or so stroke, and Eames fought his own urge to thrust up in response as he watched, feeling his nipples pucker and gooseflesh sweep over his body. The heat of her mouth, and the slick glide of her lips; the warm engulfing pressure as she bobbed her head helped the pleasure corkscrew, and Eames shivered, feeling his thighs begin to clench. Slow and liquid thrill started to ignite, and against his will, his fingers tightened in her hair. "Sally, ohfuckSally . . ." he tried to warn her, but she kept the relentless rhythm going until Eames grunted and came, his thick hard pulses flaring deep down her throat.

When he'd finally slumped back against the mattress, blissed out and lost in the hazy afterglow, Eames dimly sensed Sally giving his softening prick a last loving slurp and rubbing her lips against the front of one of his thighs before chuckling.

"I think I qualify for an _extremely _naughty girl," she told him, slithering up his body and draping herself on him like a blanket of cream.

Eames kissed her soundly, and wrapped his arms around her, his big hands coming to rest on her bare ass. "Extremely, _extremely_," he murmured affectionately. "Thank you."

"Shhhh," Sally told him, resting her head next to his on the pillow. "We'll dream after a little nap."


	4. Chapter 4

"The truth is, in a Dream, we only _think_ we recognize people, but in fact, we're symbolizing them. A dreamer knows who certain people ARE because they've assigned a persona to them; they understand who they're to represent. That's why catching personal aspects are so important, darling. Gestures, habitual phrases, clothing, certain key elements that are forever identifiable to that particular person," Eames spoke softly and confidently.

He and Sally were strolling along a charming little formal garden; a memory construct out of her head that he dimly recognized as a smaller version of Kew. The day was sunny and Sally's subs were all mingling in the lovely garden party laid out across the terraced flowerbeds and fountains.

"How do you know which aspects to use?" came the logical question. Eames turned to look at her, and smiled.

"That's . . . instinct. I can't give you a hard and fast rule that applies for every situation, pet."

"I'm not sure I trust my instincts," she replied dryly. "But since this is an exercise . . ."

Eames waited until she had closed her eyes and then he stepped away, moving out of her line of sight. He thought carefully of the file he'd skimmed, remembering the details of the employee Sally had suggested.

It helped that it was someone they _both_ knew—Herbert Baldwin, the round, balding, bespectacled head of the Pharmacy at Somno Tech. When he felt comfortable enough to pass, Eames stepped out again, and began to mingle, keeping Sally in view.

She was moving around, nodding to her subs, looking for him. Eames began to nod to the sub opposite him, remembering Herbert's annoying habit of bobbing like a pigeon, and when Sally wandered by, he waited to see if she would pick him out of the group.

Sally missed him, zeroing in on a thin woman near the edge of the gardens, and he had to sneak up, laying a warm hand along her ass, squeezing it to make her jump.

"Damn it," she hissed, realizing her error. Eames grinned at her.

"Practice makes perfect, darling. Look for the habits. Baldwin bounced like a beach ball."

She wrinkled her nose. "I remember. I don't like him; I think that's why I didn't consider you'd copy him."

"Ah-ah. Liking has nothing to do with being able to replicate someone," Eames chided. "We'll try again tomorrow, and see how it goes. When did you go to Kew, by the way?"

Sally looked up, and away from him. "A long time ago. Always liked it."

"Mmm, me too," Eames smiled softly. "It's been a long time since I've been back."

She turned to glance at him, and her gaze was compassionate. "You'll be back someday."

"Some day," Eames agreed, his tone suddenly absent. There were reasons he doubted her assertion, but he didn't want to spoil the Dream by dwelling on them just then, so he took her hand and laid it on his upper arm, escorting her to a table. A waiter brought them scones and clotted cream, and Sally looked at it with a longing sigh.

"God I wish we could actually taste food while dreaming," she murmured, and Eames snickered.

"The limitations, yes, the limitations, I know. Just as well, though—I'd hate to spoil your appetite for dinner tonight."

"We're going out?" Sally shot him a shy, pleased look, and Eames felt a surge of affection.

"I am a gentleman, darling—I do pay my debts, with interest. Given the magnificent talent you so generously shared with me this morning, I'm looking forward to repaying you in the very best fashion I can."

Sally arched an eyebrow at him, looking delighted.

He returned to his cabin and began to plan out his day, taking time to mentally list his errands and priorities. An hour at the gym, lifting and making good use of the sauna; a chance to finish Stendhal by the poolside, a quick check-in with the excursions desk for the upcoming offerings in Corfu, and a bit of clay pigeon shooting off the stern.

He made it a point to be gregarious and friendly to the stewards and pursers, tipping well. Several women gave him encouraging smiles, and a few were far more forward than that, but Eames kept his responses appropriately charming and vague, allowing himself the opportunity to maintain the rakish façade he had carefully cultivated.

Eames liked cruises. They appealed to his sense of sloth, and permitted him to indulge in all his vices with a minimum of effort. Cruises were filled with people more than willing to spend money, and always offered interesting ports of call.

And the other advantage was that they always ended, along with any entanglements created during them.

Eames frowned a little, and pushed that last thought aside, making his way to the hospitality desk. He put in an order and paid for it, smiling at the blushing girl behind the counter before making his way back to his cabin to dress for dinner.

By the time night had fallen and the pale mauve of sunset had faded to rich purple, he sauntered to Suite three, feeling both mischievous and lucky; a combination that had stood him well so far. Eames knocked.

"Coming," came the faint call, and he stood there for a moment until the cabin door opened.

Eames couldn't speak for a moment—a rarity for him. He stood, staring, and Sally eventually tried to smile at him. "Are you all right?"

"_God _you're stunning," he finally blurted out. "Absolutely bloody stunning."

He watched her blush, the rosy color rising along her cheekbones as Sally modestly looked away. "I clean up nicely," she admitted with a laugh in her voice as she let him inside.

That she did, Eames had to admit. The strapless satin dress in pale champagne clung to her curves in the most delectable ways. Sally had left her hair loose, and her only jewelry consisted of pearl drop earrings, which further highlighted her sleek appeal. He began to wonder if he could simply lock the door behind him and ravish her here and now.

Then she looked at him and gave a slow, cat-like blink of her eyes. "No," Sally murmured, firmly. "You _owe_ me a dinner at the very least!"

"I know," Eames admitted huskily, "but you can't possibly blame me for wanting a change of plans. Still," he gallantly smiled, "I shall be the envy of every man aboard and quite probably a few of the women too."

She laughed.

They made their way to the Celestine dining room, passing people who oohed and tossed compliments their way. Eames enjoyed the attention, winking outrageously at the other women, and taking the admiration with a natural sense of pride. Sally matched his stride perfectly, and they made a lovely entrance together; the Maitre'd practically squealed as they did so.

Eames held Sally's chair for her, then sat himself, the pair of them enjoying the view from the elevated booth near the front of the dining room. He watched her settle in, and felt a surge of quiet joy at the sight.

She looked up and caught his expression, her own slightly puzzled. "Yes?"

"That's a very good answer," Eames assured her with a grin. "We'll see if I can make you pant it for me, later."

Sally chuckled, and demurely looked away, giving him a sweet view of her profile in the candlelight. From somewhere, a Cole Porter tune was playing, and all was right with the world. Silently, a waiter oozed over to them.

"I'm Nicolas, and I have the amazing fortune to be your server tonight," he told him, smiling. "The rest of the wait staff are in the kitchen, crying."

Eames laughed and Sally joined in, dimpling, as Nicolas continued, his hands respectfully clasped behind his back. "Since I would gladly crawl five miles over broken glass just to die in your lovely shadow, Mademoiselle, I think it's safe to add that anything you wish to drink, I will bring without delay. And you too, sir," he added to Eames.

"Am I in on the whole five kilometer hyperbole too, or just my charming Sally?" Eames asked with mock-petulance. To his credit, Nicolas smiled broadly.

"Oh sir, did you speak? I am too blinded by your astounding good looks to see beyond the dazzle of your smile. Your drink wish is my long-term goal in this lifetime."

This charming overstatement brought a delicious giggle from Sally, and Eames himself grinned, "Oh I _like _you, Nicolas! Sally?"

"A Firefly would be lovely," she murmured. Eames nodded approvingly and added, "And I would like a gin and tonic, please."

"Without delay—Boodles, Tanqueray or Smirnoff for both?"

"Boodles will do nicely," Eames replied, and watched the young waiter smartly scoot off before turning to share a glance with Sally. "I think I'm going to enjoy this meal."

"I hope so," she replied, batting her eyes at him. "The little old lady off on that port side table is practically drooling for you."

Eames did a quick peek and saw that a withered little woman in yards of frosted ermine was indeed gazing at him with a hungry look. He turned back to Sally and caught her smirking, "I feel as if I should have an apple in my mouth."

"I'll protect you," Sally assured him sweetly.

"Do," he pleaded, sliding one foot under the table until it bumped hers, "she frightens me."

"Mmmmm, drop her a wink, and I guarantee you she'll swoon," Sally advised sagely. Eames thought about it a moment, turned, and did; the old lady squeaked and dropped her fork.

"In _one," _Eames noted with a boyish grin. "Now if I can just keep our overly-solicitous waiter from licking your shoes, the evening should be grand."

"You can try," Sally agreed, "But I'm fond of men at my feet."

"I'll start there," Eames promised, his voice going husky, "and go higher, darling. After all, desserts should be warm and sweet."

Sally gave a little shiver, and seeing it made him feel hot and restless and ever so slightly wolfish. When Nicolas brought the drinks, Eames took a deep sip, letting the vodka cool him a bit.

(is anyone reading this?)


	5. Chapter 5

It had been a magnificent meal; Eames bantered with Nicolas, tipped him twice what the meal would have cost ("Oh Sir! Madame! Not _only _am I naming my first-born after you both, but if either of you ever need a kidney-!") and managed another outrageous wink at the withered woman in furs, who was so dazzled by it she dropped her sorbet spoon this time.

They rose; Eames helped Sally from her chair and gave her his arm, feeling a slight buzz from the drinks. Not too much; a warm glow that left him aware of what a lucky man he was. Sally laughed softly and pressed closer as they made their way out of the dining room, followed by admiring glances. In the foyer, the air was cooler, and drifting on it was the slow sound of a Jazz orchestra playing _Sentimental Journey._

"How do you feel about dancing?" Sally murmured, a slightly wistful look in her eyes. Eames considered the question for a moment, then bent to nuzzle her ear.

"It's a public form of foreplay," he responded in a teasing tone. "Therefore I'm all for it."

"I thought you would be," Sally smirked. "Although I'm a lit-tle tipsy and in these heels . . ."

"I'll support you," Eames assured her confidently. "Cling to me, Sally love, and I'll make sure you won't fall."

Eames watched her crinkle her nose at him. "You're tipsy too, Julian."

"I've got a very fast metabolism," he bragged. "Alcohol evaporates in my system at a phenomenal rate. I'm practically an organic combustible engine if you _must_ know."

"Is that a fact?" Sally laughed. "I thought it was because you were so physically . . . demanding."

They were pressing up against each other now in a teasing little tango, a pretty picture in the little alcove close to the elevators. Eames could smell Sally's perfume, and under it, the scent of her skin; both were wonderful.

"Well I won't deny that I'm an active sort of fellow; squash, weights, boxing-"

"—vigorous sex," Sally agreed. "All the hallmarks of a true rake. A cute one."

"She thinks I am cute; I shall die a happy man," Eames purred, smiling. "Seriously, darling, if you want to dance, I'm yours."

Sally reached out and took his hand, tugging him along towards the music. They made their way to a little dance floor just off of the main bar, reaching a room done in marbled Art Deco. _Sentimental Journey_ had ended and now _Take the A Train_ was beginning swirling round the room smoky and sweet. Most of the couples here were older, dancing in slow foxtrots in the semi-darkness.

Eames swung onto the floor, lightly pulling Sally into his arms, where she pressed to him, her smile lovely in the dim light.

They danced.

At first they were a little out of step, but within a minute Eames felt her relax and let him lead, her body following his as they moved in a rhythm made easier by touch. The heat of her; living and slightly damp brought out his more animal instincts. He bent a little and nuzzled her cheek, savoring the minute down of her skin, the tingle of her aura humming against his own.

"God I want you," he whispered. "I don't deserve you, Sally Malone, but every cell in my body is _craving_ you."

Sally said nothing, but her fingers tightened up along his shoulder, and she gave a soft groan. Her hips pressed up against him, and Eames pushed back, sweetly frustrated by the layers of clothing between them.

Then it dawned on him that he hadn't seen any panty lines along Sally's dress, not a one through that snug wrap of satin. Fresh lust surged through Eames, focusing intently on one particular zone between his thighs.

Sally tipped her face up to him, and her eyes glittered. "I don't feel like dancing anymore."

He gave a purr that was more like a growl, and lightly, Eames danced her over towards the door again, movements gracefully ruthless. They broke apart with reluctance, and he scooped up her hand, kissing it to taste the salt on her skin before lacing his fingers with hers. "We need to take this somewhere else, darling," Eames rumbled, his voice husky now.

"Mmm," Sally agreed, and they shifted, moving down the carpeted hallways of the ship, towards the Deck three, Suite three. The trip seemed in some oddly warped sense of time, taking far longer than merely walking encompassed. Eames kept an arm around Sally, barely aware of the passing ship-scape as they moved together from one section to the next. When the luxury cabin doors finally appeared at the end of the hall, he felt his pulse begin to beat hard along his temples, among other places.

His skin felt hot, and sweet anticipation was making him almost dizzy as he watched Sally push her card key into the slot.

Inside, he flicked the light switch, and she half-turned to smile at him. "Just the one," Sally murmured, and Eames understood. He shrugged out of his jacket and moved to take her in his arms, indulging in a quick kiss. Sally gave a grateful little sigh, pressing against him and molding to his body again. Eames slid his hands behind her back, finding the tiny zipper to the dress and slowly tugging it down. The sultry growl sent a tiny shiver through him, and Sally laughed softly against his lips.

"We _are_ a pair, aren't we?"

"And I'm so bloody glad we are—" Eames replied, slipping a hand into the gap left by the zipper and stroking Sally's warm, bare spine. "Ahhh, just as I suspected: you're sans lingerie."

"I wondered when you would clue into that," came her warm chuckle as one hand slid down to the ridge along his fly. "God, you're a big one!"

"Genetics and clean living," he replied, pushing the dress down gently. It dropped with a whisper, and Eames had to swallow at the sight it left behind. Sally shifted on her fancy heels, and lightly began to undo the studs along the front of his shirt.

Eames reached down and scooped her up; Sally squeaked but didn't resist, and the feel of her nude, warm weight made him want to growl. He carried her into the tiny bedroom and laid her down on the coverlet, his hands stroking along her sleek flanks as he smiled at her.

"Be a good girl, darling, and put those pretty hands of yours under your marvelous bottom, will you?" Eames crooned. "I want them safely tucked away for this."

Sally shot him a sultry look. "You want me to sit on my hands?"

"Rather," he nodded, carelessly pulling the tuxedo studs out and collecting them in one palm. "You're good at following directions."

"Julian—" she began, but he dropped his free hand along her lips, silencing her.

"Shhhh—be a love and let me do this," Eames murmured, his voice dropping a register and going husky. "You're a banquet, Sally, and I've got an appetite only you can fill. Don't deny me, pet. I want you so very much—" He hadn't meant to sound desperate, but a note of longing came through in his words.

Sally gave a little frustrated sigh and slowly slid her hands down, rolling from side to side as she tucked them under her. The gentle bobble of her breasts as she did so made Eames stiffen even more, and he gave a happy groan, quickly dropping the studs on the nightstand before striding back to the foot of the bed to lean over her legs. She couldn't help but smile at him. "You look . . . dangerous."

"Looks can be . . . deceiving," Eames assured her, and he bent down to kiss one knee. Gratified with the response to that, he shifted a few pillows; one for behind her head ("So you have the best view, Darling,") and one for the small of her back, forcing Sally to arch her spine a bit.

Eames clenched his teeth, savoring the sight of those parted thighs and the bliss between them, now open to his view. He carefully crouched at the foot of the bed and leaned over, humming in sweet anticipation. Nothing else mattered at the moment, and the occasional slight shift of the ship added to a dreamy sense of now. Lightly, Eames smiled against the creamy warmth of her thigh as he pressed his mouth to it, and with lingering slowness, he began to tease.

The pleasure lay, Eames knew, in the measured foreplay; the deliberate anticipation. Sally was a feast of textures and flavors; musky satin and gleaming heat, glistening curls slick with the evidence of her arousal. He wanted it all. Eames rubbed his face against her flat stomach, buried his nose along each ticklish crease of inner thigh, kissed and licked the hot flesh around the edges of her springy thatch of pubic fur with lingering slowness while Sally muttered curses at him, and tried to pull her hands up from under the pillow at her bottom. Eames tutted at her, grinned, and went back to the far more interesting sport of nudging his tongue deeper into her cleft.

Her curses trailed off, and Sally's panting began; every time she seemed close to coming, Eames slowed down, fighting his own throbbing pulse and sheer caveman desires. It would be so easy to slide up and into her hungry body, to take her as deeply and hard as possible, but Eames resisted it until finally Sally gave a low, desperate yowl and arched up against his mouth, her rocking hips and stiff little bud making him growl back. He suckled until she seemed to melt, her body going slack against the pillows, eyes half-closed with spent pleasure.

"I want to kill you," came her throaty purr. "Right after I fuck you. Now."

Eames swallowed hard and shoved his trousers down with no finesse. He hastily tugged a condom on, and then dropped onto her with sweet animal heaviness as Sally lifted her legs, wrapping them around his waist. "Sally-"

She pulled his face to hers and groaned into his mouth when he slid into her, the stroke so pleasure-drenched that they both shuddered hard. Eames slid his hands under her shoulders, and gave up control then, his body driving hard into hers as Sally bucked under him. The bed creaked loudly, but neither Eames nor Sally cared as they rocked together, panting and gasping for long and glorious minutes, locked in the most sensual dance known to man.

Hot, wild release rose and flared through Eames; he rode the crest of his orgasm, arms slipping tightly around Sally as he slowly came to rest on her damp body, his own breathing still ragged, his heart pounding hard. He nuzzled her throat, too spent to even speak, and the reassuring squeeze of Sally's arms around his damp, bare back made Eames smile.


	6. Chapter 6

He woke up in the night, muzzily aware of an odd sound, and rising gently up through the layers of sleep. Eames tried to focus, and dimly it occurred to him that was he heard was weeping. That was enough to make him tighten his arm around Sally, who lay spooned on her side against his chest.

She stiffened, not saying a word, and Eames nuzzled his nose behind her ear. "All right then, sweetheart?"

"Fine. Go back to sleep," came Sally's low whisper. He hesitated, wanting to ask more, but the warmth and quiet lulled Eames back to sleep, and he drifted off once more, content.

000ooo000ooo000

Waking up alone for a second morning was . . . annoying. Eames stretched his arms and scratched a few stray itches, wondering if Sally was out doing Yoga again. The nightstand clock told him it was just after nine, and the buttery sunshine of a lovely Mediterranean day filtered through the sheers of the balcony. Eames sighed and climbed out of bed, feeling a few twinges and smiling to himself, looking around quickly, and hoping to pounce on Sally wherever she might happen to be.

Instead, his eye fell on the Pasiv, sitting out on the coffee table, a note on top of the silver case. With trepidation, Eames strode over and picked up the paper, unself-conscious in his nudity as he stood there reading it.

_Darling,_

_You'll have to dream alone today; the sed is already loaded in, so you'll have your dose. _

_Thank you for last night._

_Sally_

Eames frowned, rubbing his bristly chin as he re-read the note carefully, looking for something . . . more.

"Bloody hell. 'Thank you for last night?' What the fuck does that mean? Polite, yes, but—" he growled, balling the note up in one fist and tossing it over his shoulder. There was something off about the note; something dismissive and cool, and Eames didn't want to admit the terseness cut deeply. He roamed around the cabin, grumpily making coffee and debated shaving before deciding not to.

With annoyance, he plugged himself into the Pasiv and spent half an hour striding narrow streets that vaguely looked like little neighborhoods in Sardinia, moving from one village square to another, glowering this way and that. By the time Eames had come out of the Dream, he'd decided that casual though matters were, at the very least, he deserved a face-to-face goodbye, if this was in fact, goodbye.

He returned to his own cabin, showered, shaved and dressed, then spent the middle of the day prowling around the ship, smiling and moving along from one banal conversation to the next, keeping an eye out for an errant blonde. By the time he'd reached the shore excursion desk, the clerk there was just setting up the 'out to lunch' sign, but she took it down when he approached.

"May I help you?" she murmured flirtatiously. Eames gave her a beautiful, careless smile.

"Oh yes, I'm certain you can, my pet. I was wondering if any of the afternoon trips were open; I've a yen to shop for Ouzo and Kalamata olives."

The girl laughed, and ran a manicured nail down the list in the clipboard in front of her. "Let me see . . . yes, the three o'clock ferry still has room, if you'd like. It will take you into St. Anathais harbor . . ."

Eames smiled, and as the girl took his cabin key to register him, he quickly scanned the list, grateful that it was a printout and not hand-written; reading upside down was much easier that way. Close to the top was Sally's name, and he felt a spark of something—anger, thrill, probably both—at the sight of it there.

It only took a few minutes, and Eames made his way back to his cabin, changing into a lightweight linen suit and pale blue shirt. He loitered outside the loading area for the shore boat, keeping out of sight as various passengers making their way down. Sally arrived just behind a pair of matrons, looking luscious in a slim sleeveless dress of khaki with a matching clutch. She made her way into the small ferry, and Eames stepped out, swinging himself down the into the boat and settled in next to the matrons, smiling at them both. The two of them preened and made room for him; out of the corner of his eye, Eames saw Sally stiffen and glance away.

The captain of the boat took up the microphone and began a well-practiced spiel about the beauties of the harbor and the highlights of Greece, sprinkling in several flat and dreadful jokes that seemed to be in the repertoire of every tourist trip, Eames thought. When they reached the dock, a small metal gangway was set up and the cruise folk went down the walkway in clumps, only to be swooped on by hawkers of goods, taxi drivers, free-lance tour guides and a host of gypsy children, all clamoring for drachmas and generally adding to the noise level.

Eames sidled to the edge of the crowd while keeping one hand on his pocketed wallet, and his eyes on Sally. She strode through the cluster at a determined pace, smiling as startled onlookers cleared a path for her, and she reached a taxi at roughly the same time Julian did, although his was further back in the line. Slipping into his, he told the driver, "Follow the taxi up there with the blonde lady, hmm?"

The driver, a portly man with a mustache worthy of a Cossack, grinned. "Like in the movies?" he asked, pulling the old vehicle out into traffic.

"Something like that," Eames agrees absently. The taxi ahead moves out, and they settle into a moderate pace, a few cars behind, but never out of sight. Eames wondered if Sally was aware of the tail and decided she was; a girl as smart as she was rarely missed much. The other taxi wasn't trying to evade them, and when it stopped at a small bookstore at the end of a narrow street, Eames watched as Sally went in before paying his ride and following her.

The shop was old and elegant; a building dedicated to the classics, from the scent of old leather and paper that tickled his nose. The name over the door was in Greek of course, but Eames noted that several of the signs inside were in English and Italian as well.

_Cell phone calls are not tolerated here_, one politely informed him.

Eames could understand the sentiment; the reverent quiet of the store was underscored by a whisper-soft recording of Mozart, and the shop's patrons were all pre-occupied with examining the shelves or reading.

He looked up. There was a second story that was more of a gallery above, with a wrought iron railing encircling it. Sally was there, perusing something on a middle shelf. Eames stepped further to the back of the store and pretended to read. By accident he picked up a book on natural childbirth; when one of the clerks looked up at him, Eames managed a dazzling smile and pretended to be interested in the section on slow breathing.

Eames listened, picking out the distinctive sound of Sally's high heels as she circled around the upper gallery, not rushing, but not settling in anywhere. When he heard her heading towards the stairs, Eames moved to intercept, and was at the bottom when Sally came down. Halfway she faltered, but lifting her chin, she managed a small smile.

"Mr. Eames," she acknowledged quietly. "How are you?"

Two could play at this game, Eames decided. He gave her a careless smile. "Never better, Miss Malone. Incidentally, my petal, wasn't aware that I'd offended you so much that you would leave me after our sweaty lovemaking, tiptoeing away in the night like it was something to be ashamed of."

He delivered this in a moderate voice; in the quiet of the bookstore it carried, and distantly, a few patrons glanced over, curiosity piqued.

Sally, he noted, was blushing a lovely shade of pink, and damn it, her bottom lip was quivering slightly, making him feel like the utter heel he was to be calling her out in public.

"Oh I certainly wasn't ashamed, Mr. Eames, although I think this discussion should be postponed until we're not in quite so public a venue."

"Is this gentleman bothering you, Miss?" came the polite and steely tone. Both Sally and Eames looked over to see a thin elderly man looking at them, his gaze severe as it rested on Eames.

Eames blinked. The shopkeeper was whip-thin and frail, but he carried himself with the quiet assurance that he was prepared to bodily move him out of the shop, and that sense of gallantry both amused and impressed Eames. He gave a bow of his head in concession.

"Sir-"

Sally interrupted, coming down and laying a hand on Eames' arm. "Mr. Pavlopolous, we were just leaving. Thank you," so saying, she steered Eames towards the door, her push steering him out onto the street. Once there, Sally tried to slip on her sunglasses, but Eames deftly plucked them from her fingers.

"Anything you've got to say, you'll do so looking me straight in the eyes," he told her with more gentleness than he felt. "I deserve that, at the very least, darling."

"All right," Sally agreed, blinking a little. She guided him down the sidewalk towards a seawall; in the distance they could see the cruise ship on the azure waters. "Julian, we've . . . we've done more fucking than Dreaming. The only reason I tracked you down was to be mentored in forging, and that's what you agreed to."

Eames blinked, and worked his jaw a little, feeling an ache in it. Feeling an ache in several places as her words sank in. "Ah. So you can't handle the fact that we're damned good in bed and now you want to go back to being teacher and student, is that it?"

"Yes," she blurted, and looked up at him. "Let's be honest here. I'm not in love with you and you're not in love with me—we're sexually compatible, yes, but once this ship gets into port, both of us are going our merry ways, and there's no point in pretending anything otherwise, is there? I've got enough to deal with in my life without the complications of a gorgeous randy bastard going after my heart because he thinks it's the door prize."

"Oh that's *rich!*" Eames growled, leaning close. "As I recall, *you* were the one who pulled a gun on me, planted a chip in my head and coerced me into being your personal professor—from the very beginning we *both* agreed the sex wasn't going to be personal, now didn't we?"

Sally blinked rapidly, and turned away, her voice slightly ragged. "Yes. Yes we did. But it's a lot harder to do than to say, Julian, and I can't . . . handle it. I need you to give me space and just . . . do the forging."

Eames wanted to shout, to argue and mostly to kiss her hard and deep. She was unfairly beautiful at the moment, with tears darkening her lashes and a little breeze stirring up her hair. He gritted his teeth instead, and gave a curt nod. "How can I say no? I'm rather at your mercy here, Sally Malone, so I suppose we do things your way." He gave a humorless little laugh. "There's a reason why I don't trust women as beautiful as you; thank you for reaffirming that policy."

He sauntered away, feeling his smugness begin to burn off, washing him in a wave of regret, and with a whistle Eames called a taxi, wondering how far away the nearest bar was, and how much of the local poison he could drink before catching the last ferry back to the ship.

Eames didn't remember much about his return to the cruise liner, or how he managed to find his way to his cabin; the amount of alcohol he'd managed to drink blotted out most of his memories. He did recall mastering several new words in Greek, none of which were repeatable in polite society, and there was a huge jar of stuffed olives on his dresser, but other than that, the night before was blessedly blank.

His head hurt in new and painful ways as the hangover and the implant collaborated; cursing, Eames slumped into the shower, dressed himself quickly and stumbled his way towards Sally's cabin, prepared to keep any necessary conversation to a minimum.

She was there, wearing faded denim shorts and a bateaux sweater, her face pale. "You look . . . bad," Sally told him softly. "What can I get you?"

"Tea," Eames grunted. "Earl Grey, brewed for six minutes in near boiling water."

She nodded and placed the order with room service, loitering by the phone to avoid conversation. Eames didn't care; he slumped on the sofa, closing his eyes and ignoring her.

Tried to ignore her, anyway; he couldn't quite manage it, not with the knowledge of her so close at hand. The scent of Sally and her quiet presence helped him relax a tiny bit.

The Pasiv was already set up and waiting, but Eames ignored it, holding out for the tea first, and when it came, he brushed off Sally's attempt to prepare it.

"I know how I like it," he told her gruffly, pouring the water and loading the strainer with big but deft hands. "It's a personal quirk, tea—every nationality makes it differently, and most Yanks either make it too weak or over-sugared."

Sally nodded, sitting back and watching him; Eames went through the process and sat back, waiting for the tea to infuse. He didn't look directly at her face, and spend the time studying her hands, which are twisting restlessly with each other. The body language was clear, and Eames took odd comfort in the idea that she was as upset as he was.

Then it dawned on him that he *was* upset; that this row with Sally had him off-balance and that furthermore, he shouldn't BE upset. He, Julian Eames had gone into this hookup with no emotional expectations, and yet now he had a throbbing headache and a sudden urge to quit the cruise.

He poured. Eames held the pot steady, unconscious manners making him fill her cup first, and then his own, feeling some of his tension drain away in the comfort of the ritual. It was a British thing, yes, but also, he realized, a *home* thing. Something shared with only the people he truly cared about.

And Sally, apparently, was in that elite category now. Eames hesitated only a moment, and then handed her a cup. He noted that she added two sugars and a squeeze of lemon; he himself took it straight, and they sipped in companionable silence for a moment, savoring the brew.

"Better," Eames announced quietly. "All right, then?"

Sally nodded back, looking at him over the rim of her cup. "Yes."

He sniffed, took a last sip, and moved to the Pasiv. "Very well Miss Malone; your turn to hide while I seek."


	7. Chapter 7

Eames chose a dry sunny courtyard; Yusuf would have recognized it easily. Laundry hung over balconies and the hard baked dirt underfoot held the warmth. In the center was a block fountain with water spilling from its four sides into the square moat the surrounded it, the bubbling sound welcome in the heat.

The time was mid-afternoon and Eames took a moment to appreciate his handiwork, pleased to see that he'd done a fairly good job in replicating the place. He looked at himself—light linen suit, his favorite orange paisley shirt—and set out, strolling down the street.

Had it truly been Makadara, he would have been pestered by urchins begging for coins as they circled him, but Eames passed on, unmolested into the shadow of a two-story mud building, glad of the shade. He looked up the street, but saw only an orange vendor, and an old man leading a donkey burdened with firewood.

Nothing seemed awkward, and certainly the figures on the street fit in; neither looked to be Sally. Eames kept walking, turning a corner and listening to the low call of the adhan throbbing from some unseen minaret. He felt himself relax, and sink into the memory, feeling better with every step. How long had it been since he'd been to Mombassa? At least a year; time for a visit after the cruise, certainly. Yusuf would grumble, but welcome him . . .

As he strode on, Eames looked ahead, and there, in the middle of the street stood a young toddler.

He started, stumbled as he took in her dark hair and wide grey eyes. A rush of longing and anger rose in Eames' gorge as he recovered his step and locked eyes on her. "Charlotte?"

The familiar cock of the head, and suddenly all he could feel was the unreasonable unjust _hope _of the moment—longing tempered by the knowledge that this wasn't real, no matter how badly he _wanted_ it to be.

"Stop it," Eames growled, his voice uneven. "She's off-limits, utterly. You've no right to use her on me,_ ever_."

There was no answer, and Eames looked around. A few silent groups were beginning to form, and in one of them, he noted a green-eyed young cleric in a ragged turban. For a moment, Eames paused, torn as he stared.

Then the cleric spoke. "It's not me doing it."

Eames shot his glance back to the child, who laughed sweetly and began to run. She scooted off, her little sandals kicking up tiny puffs of dust, and by the time he began to chase after her, she'd turned a corner.

He did too, knowing even as he did that she would be gone.

She was. Eames let his shoulders slump and he ran a hand over his face, wishing he could wipe away whatever his expression was at the moment. He tried to breathe, and not let the anger get in the way, but it was damned difficult, and when he felt Sally's hand on his shoulder, he turned on her.

"What the fucking HELL was that about? A chance to get back at me for making you cry, is that it?"

"Stop it," Sally firmly replied, back in her feminine shape. She pushed herself in front of Eames and looked up into his face, her own expression worried. "She wasn't from _me_."

"Of course she was!" Eames growled, but even as he said it, he hesitated. "You're the subject; they're all your projections."

"Not that one. Not your daughter," Sally murmured. "I may be a bitch at times, but I wouldn't dare go that far, Julian. Ever. Why did she show up?"

Eames straightened up and looked around; the subs were all staring, and shifting uneasily. He reached out to take Sally's hand and tugged her towards a battered truck parked along the curb. "Move. We'll talk."

Sally slid behind the wheel and started the truck pulling out and heading along the street. She shot Eames an uneasy look. "Where do I go?"

"Take rights, and just keep taking them," Eames growled, rubbing his nose. "You know about Jana and Charlotte then."

Sally nodded, gripping the greasy steering wheel more tightly; there's no point in lying. "Yes. When I was researching you and why you left Somno Tech, it came up in the background material. I'm sorry for what happened."

"Ah. Me too," Eames grunts. For several minutes they said nothing, and Sally kept driving. Finally, he laid his hands on the dashboard and muttered, "Stress. I'm under emotional stress and that's pushing out the projection. Charlotte was—is- the most prominent flashpoint for me. Mystery solved."

"All right," Sally replied, and turned right again. "Has it ever happened before?"

"To me? No. I've seen it happen to other people though."

Sally said nothing, and Eames shot a sidelong look at her, reassessing her profile, feeling a compulsion to say more. "Look, part of what it takes to forge well is the capacity to concentrate. Being off by even a few seconds can ruin the entire setup. Little leaks and breeches are a sign that you need to focus. In this case, that_ I_ need to focus."

They were silent for a moment, and then Sally murmured, "I'm sorry."

Eames pursed his mouth. "Me too."

The next right turn brought them back to the square with the fountain. It was empty now, with only the water splashing to show any sign of life. Sally stopped the truck and Eames reached over for her arm, looking into her eyes.

"My daughter drowned. It was an accident; a hot summer day and her mother was on the phone in the house. After it happened, I took it badly; couldn't work, couldn't concentrate, not there in London. So I left. And in places like Mombasa and Thailand and Helsinki, I was able to get back into forging. I locked up the memories and put them away safely because it was the only way I was going to keep doing what I do best. You understand?"

Sally nodded.

Eames gave a deep sigh. "Good. You're the first person I've told about Charlotte. I suppose that's a good thing, particularly after all this time."

"I suppose on the most obvious level it's because you think of us in similar ways," Sally said gently. "Somewhat . . . vulnerable."

Eames gave a thoughtful rumble. "True."

They climbed out of the truck, and Sally slowly made her way to the fountain. She slipped out of her sandals and stepped into it, dropping her legs in the water and wiggling her toes.

Eames watched her from the edge. "You _knew_ it was Charlotte."

"Yes," Sally told him, her voice soft. "I read your files, but they didn't tell the whole story, so I went a little deeper; did the research and found out exactly. I'm so sorry it happened."

Eames found himself looking away, unable to take the compassion in Sally's face. "Me too, pet, me too. One of the biggest shocks of my life, after finding out about Charlotte's conception, was discovering I wanted to be a father. Talk about your ironies; myself the perennial bachelor, the original knave of hearts, and there I was, enthralled by a female barely the size of my two spread hands."

Sally reached out and took one, her fingers warm and firm as she squeezed it, and Eames squeezed back, feeling a flood of warmth and lightness in his chest as he did so.

He fought it, fought it hard, but the low deep sob rose up, pushing its way out, and Eames broke, tears leaking in earnest now. He felt Sally splash and move closer, slipping her arms around him as Eames stumbled into the water himself, soaking his shoes and wetting his shins. He pulled Sally into his arms, holding her for support.

She gave it, holding him tightly, and Eames clung back, grateful as his anguish flooded out in great wracking sobs. They held on, and when the kick came, they were still wrapped around each other.

000ooo000ooo000

Eames blinked, aware that his face was wet even as he opened his eyes. He looked at Sally, who was struggling to sit up on the other end of the sofa, and realized her own cheeks were damp as well.

"We're a hell of a pair," he growled hoarsely, "Christ."

"Julian . . ." Sally slid over to him and put her arms around his torso, hugging him closely. He dropped an arm around her and sighed with gusty release, his tension visibly relaxing as he tucked her in against his side. They said nothing, their embrace securely locked around each other for a long, warm while.

"Thank you," Eames finally whispered, sniffing and trying to sound more composed than he was. "It's been a damned long time since I thought about my girl."

"It's all right," Sally assured him, her voice just as unstable. "It's all right."

"Yes," Eames agreed after a long moment. "Although it seems odd. She's gone; I accepted that years ago."

"You may have accepted it, but you didn't let yourself mourn," Sally pointed out quietly. "For some people, they think that if they mourn, they'll forget their loved one. It's not so—they'll always be with you. Charlotte will always be with you, I promise."

Eames gave a gusty sigh. "She was . . . smart. Christ, was she smart. Had me figured out from day one, and beautiful? I'm no Adonis, but somehow she got the best of whatever genetics we both had."

Sally let him talk; encouraged him to share the stories he'd kept bottled up for so long. With each memory, Eames seemed to relax a bit more, until both of them were stretched out on the sofa, entwined and boneless. She felt herself start to drift a bit, and fought it, but Eames was so comfortable, and the slow rock of the ship felt equally nice.

They both fell asleep.


End file.
